The Story of Teagan Monday
by writerdiva2000
Summary: This is a story of romance. A story of love. A story of happy times. Of hard times. Of laughs and tears. A story of friendship. This is the story of Teagan Monday. The story of me. Spot/OC -MAJOR NOTE: I screwed up with this a bit so before you start reading you need to know that there is a prologue. However, it is in chapter nine people. So read chapter nine the the start and ya.
1. 60-40, We'se Forget Da Whole Thing

I groaned as Kloppman hollered and yelled at us to get up.

"Mmm?" Jack moaned. "Wha's da matta wit ya?"

"Wha's da matta wit me?" Kloppman retorted.

"Wha's da matta wit you? Wanna...go...back...ta…" Jack said, falling asleep again.

"Come on!" Kloppman yelled, shoving him.

"Get away from me," Jack shouted. "Yer're mad!"

"Shuddup Jack!" I screamed, burying my face in my pillow.

"Come on, Spitfire." Kloppman said, taking my pillow from under my face and hitting me with it. "Alright! Carry da bannar! Sell da papes!"

"That's my cigar," I rolled out of bed as Race yelled at Snipeshooter.

"You'll steal anudder!" Snipes replied, blowing out smoke.

"Hey bummers," Kid Blink commented. "we'se got woik ta do!"

"Since when did you'se become me mudder?" I scoffed.

"Aww," Crutchy complained. "stop yer bawlin'."

"Hey," we all countered. "who asked you'se?"

I laughed as Mush made fun of Jack sleeping.

"Yeah, we'se hoid ya, Mush," I replied when he asked if anybody heard him.

"Spitfire, when I'se walk, does it look like I'm fakin' it?" Crutchy asked.

"No," I replied, taken aback. "Who says you'se fakin' it?"

"I dunno. It's just dere's so many fake crips on da street taday, a real crip ain't got a chance. I'se gotta find me a new sellin' spot where dey ain't usin' ta seein' me."

"Try Bottle Alley or da harbour," Mush commented.

"Try Central Park," added Race. "it's guaranteed."

"Try any bankah, bum, or barbah." stated Jack.

"Dey almost alls knows how ta read." sang out Skittery.

"I smell money," shouted Blink as he walked out of the stall.

"You smell foul!" retorted Crutchy. I laughed as I tied my hair back with a dull green ribbon.

"Met dis goil last night." declared Mush.

"Move your elbow!" avowed Crutchy, shoving a random limb out of his way.

"Pass da towel!" demanded Race, wandering around, blinded by shaving cream.

"For a buck I might!" hollered Skittery, waving a cloth above his head.

"Ain't it a fine life," all of us sang. "carryin' da bannah through it all? A mighty fine life, carryin' da bannah tough and tall. Every mornin', we goes where we'se wishes! We'se as free as fishes, sure beats washin' dishes. What a fine life, carryin' da bannah home-free all."

The boys ran down the stairs. I followed, jumping over the banister, and almost landing on Race. I laughed as he waved his fist at me.

"Summah stinks and witah's waitin'," we sang as we ran towards the Newsie Square. "Welcome ta New Yawk. Boy, ain't nature fascinatin', when you'se gotta wawk? Still, it's a fine life. Carryin' da bannah wit me chums. A mighty fine life, blowin' every nickel as it comes!"

"I'm no snoozer, sittin' makes me ansty." announced Crutchy.

"I'se likes livin' chancy," I confessed, doing a back handspring roundoff across the square.

We walked up to the nuns as they remarked; "Blessed children, thought you wonder lost and depraved. Jesus loves you, you shall be saved!"

A pretty woman walked through us, singing for her lost son as we asked for food.

"Just give me half a cup," pleaded Racetrack, reaching out for a drink.

"Somet'ing ta wake me up," Blink asked.

"I'se gotta find an angle," Mush expressed.

"I'se gotta sell more papes," Crutchy registered.

"Sure hope da headlines hot," I speculated.

"If I hate da headline," us newsies recited. "I'll make up da headline. And I'll say anyt'ing I'se hafta. 'Cause it's two fer a penny, if I'se take too many, Weasel just makes me eat 'em afta."

"We'se need a good assassination," we bellowed, yelling at the World building. "We'se need an earthquake or a war!"

"How 'bout a crooked politican?" implored Snipeshooter.

"Hey, stupid, dat ain't news no more!" we proclaimed, throwing our hats at him. "Uptown ta Grand Central Station, down ta City Hall. We improves our circulation, walkin' till we'se fall!"

"Look," I said, pointing and directing Race's vision to the billboard. "dere puttin up da headline. Dey call dat a headline? Da idiot who wrote it must be woiking fer da Sun. Didja hear 'bout da fire?"

"Hoid it killed old man Maguire!" declared Boots.

"Hoid da toll was even higher," scoffed Racetrack.

"Why do I'se miss all da fun?" I inquired. Then, from the around the corner, walked the Delancey brothers.

"Dear me," Race exclaimed. "What is dat unpleasant aroma? I fear da sewer may have backed up durin' da night."

"Nah," said Boots. "too rotten ta be da sewers."

"It must be da Delancey brudders," Crutchy crowed.

"Hiya boys!" I called, waving at them cheerily.

"In da back, you'se lousy liddle shrimp," Oscar said, throwing Snipeshooter to the ground.

"It's not good ta do dat," Race explained, as I walked forward and helped Snipes up and asked him if he was okay. "Not healthy."

"Ya shouldn't call people lousy liddle shrimps, Oscar," Jack remarked. "unless, you'se refering ta da family resemblance in you brudda here."

"5-1 dat Cowboy skunks 'em. Who's bettin'?" Racetrack offered. I hit him in the back of the head as the others shot him down.

"Dat's right." Cowboy acknowledged. "It's an insult. So's dis."

Jack grabbed Oscar's hat and started to tear through the crowd of newsies. I laughed as the Delancey's chased him. Jack bumped into two boys, and the older asked; "What do you think you're doing?"

"Runnin'!" Jack responded.

"Go!" We cheered Jack on as he fought the brothers. I scoffed as Oscar and Morris tried to threaten Jack. I stepped into line right behind him as he taunted Weasel.

"Don't rush me." Jack patronized, "I'm perusin' da merchandise Mr. Weasel. Da usual."

"100 papes fer da wise guy!" Weasel called. "Next!"

"Hiya, Weasel!" I said, cheerfully.

"Oh," he said, scowling. "It's you."

"Aw," I pouted. "You'se sound sad. Ain't we'se foiends, Mr. Weasel?"

"No." Weasel stated dully. "Now, how many?"

"Fine," I declared. "Hurry up and get me my 100 papes, ya scumbag."

Jack laughed as I sat down next to him. "He hates you'se even more den he hates me." he said. "and dats sayin' somet'ing."

"Shuddup," I laughed, "I'se a very likeable person. Weasel just nevah had a foiend before so he don't know how ta react ta me."

"See anything good dis mornin'?" Racetrack asked as he sat on my otherside. "Look at dis, "Baby Born with Two Heads.'"

"Must be from Brooklyn," I remarked.

"I paid for twenty," I turned to see the boy from before standing in front of the window. "I only got nineteen."

"Are you accusin' me o' lyin' kid?" Weasel implored.

"No," the boy replied. "I just want my paper."

"He said beat it!" Morris shouted, pressing his face against the bars.

"No, it nineteen," said Jack, who had gotten up and started to count the papers. "It's nineteen. But don't worry 'bout it. It's an honest mistake. I mean, Morris 'ere can't count ta twenty wit his shoes on. Hey Spitfire, will ya spot me two bits? Anudder fifty for my foiend."

I obliged as the boy said; "I don't want another fifty."

"Sure ya do. Every newsie wants more papes." Jack responded.

"I don't," said the boy. "I don't want your papes. I don't take charity from anyone. I don't know you. I don't care to. Here are you papes."

"Cowboy," said the little boy next to the older one. "They called him Cowboy."

"Yeah," answered Jack, looking at the kid. "I'm called dat and a lot o' udder t'ings, includin' Jack Kelly, which is what me mudder called me. What do dey call you'se, kid?"

"Les," responded the little boy. "and this is my brother, David. He's older."

"No kiddin'." I said, standing next to Cowboy. "So, how old are ya, kiddo?"

"Me?" replied Les. "Near ten."

"Near ten?" asked Cowboy. "Well, dat's no good. If anyone asks, you're seven. You'se see, younger sells more papes and if we're gonna be partners, we wanna be da best."

"Wait," exclaimed David. "Who said anything about being partners?"

"Well," Jack started to explain. "you'se owe me two bits, right?"

"Wrong," I emphasised. "He and you'se owe me two bits."

"Right, sorry," Jack apologized. "You'se owe Spitfire, 'ere two bits. Well, we'll considah dat an investment. You'se, me, and Spitfire, sell togeder, we split 70-30, plus you'se get da benefit o' observin' me and Spitfire, no charge."

David scoffed, and Jack mockingly scoffed after him.

"You're gettin' da chance o' a lifetime 'ere, Davey." Crutchy said. "You'se loin from Spitfire and Jack, you'se loin from da best."

"Well, if they're the best, then how come they need me?" David quizzed.

"Listen," Jack proposed, starting to get annoyed. "We'se don't need you'se, pal. But we'se ain't got a cute liddle brudder like Les 'ere to front fer us. Wit dis kid's puss and our God-given talent, we'se could move a thousand papes a week. So, what do ya say Les? You'se wanna sell wit me and Spitfire?"

"Yeah!" Les cheered.

"So," I insisted. "we'se gotta deal?"

"Wait" said David. "It's gotta be at least 50-50."

"60-40," I suggested. "We'se forget da whole thing."

David held out for us to shake. However, when Jack spit into his hand and reached out to shake his, David pulled away.

"What'sa matta?" Jack asked, taken aback.

"That's disgusting!" David retorted. I laughed as the four of us walked out of the Distribution Center, Les riding on my back.

"Da name o' da game is volume, Dave," Jack explained. "You'se only took twenty papes. Why?"

"Bad headline." David stated, causing me to snort.

"Dat's da foist ding ya gotta loin." I scolded, still trying to hold back my laughter at his blunt reply. "Headlines don't sell papes, newsies sell papes. You know, we're what hold dis town togethah. Witout newsies, nobody knows nothin'."

A girl ran past and I rolled my eyes as the boys removed their hat and made comments.

"Baby born wit t'ree heads." Specs hollered.


	2. Tiffany Malloy

Soon, Jack, David, Les, and I were selling papers at a wrestling match in the streets of New York.

"Extra! Extra!" David called out. "Trolley strike drags on!"

"Extra! Extra!" I hollered out, after him. "Ellis Island in flames! Thank ya, miss."

"Wait, where's that story?" David inquired, looking through one of his papers.

"Thank you sir. Page nine." Jack said. "Thousands flee in panic! Thank ya. Much obliged ta you'se ladies."

"'Trash Fire Next To Immigration Building Terrifies Seagulls'?" David gawked.

"Yep." I affirmed. "Thousands of lives at stake! Extra! Extra! Thanks ma'am."

"Hey," Jack greeted, when Les popped up. "you start in da back like we'se told ya? Okay, show Spitfire again." Les turned towards me and I looked down to watch.

"Buy me last pape, mistah?" Les choked out between coughs.

"It's heartbreaking, kid," I laughed, handing him some more papers. "Go get 'em."

"My father taught us not to lie," David remarked.

"Well, mine told me not ta starve," Cowboy answered. "so, we'se both got an education."

"You two are just making things up." David replied. "All these headlines."

"I don't do nothin' da guys who write it don't do." Jack scoffed.

"Anyway," I added "it's not lyin'. It's just improvin' da truth a liddle."

"The guy gave me a quarter!" Les said, running towards us. "Quick, give me some more last papes!"

"Wait, wait," Davey implied. "You smell like beer."

"Well, that's how I made the quarter." Les revealed. "The guy bet me I wouldn't drink some."

"Hey, no drinking on the job." Jack said, as we laughed at David's face and Les' bluntness. "It's bad for business. And what if somebody called da coppers on ya."

"Is he a friend of your's?" I turned to see David pointing to Waren Snyder, warden of the Refuge.

"Beat it!" Jack shouted. "It's the bulls!"

"All this over one sip of beer?" Les wailed as I threw him over my shoulder.

Snyder chased through the streets and into a building. I pulled into first place as we ran up the stairs in a building. Without stopping, I jumped over a small wall and landed on the ledge with Jack right behind me. Jack popped his head above the wall and waved towards Les and David. Quickly they joined us on the ledge, as Snyder arrived on the roof.

"Sullivan! Monday!" he screamed. "Wait till I get you back to the Refuge."

We led them a bit farther away, when David pulled us to a stop outside Irving Hall.

"I'm not running any further," he stated. Jack nodded and we followed him inside.

"I want some answers." David said, grabbing my arm.

"Shh," Jack said. "and don't touch her," he added, glaring pointedly at his fingers wrapped around my forearm. David quickly retracted his arm.

"Who was he," Davey pressed, "and why was he chasing you? And what is this Refuge?"

"The Refuge is a jail for kids." Jack explained. "Dat guy chasing us was Snyder, the warden."

"You were in jail?" Les asked, astonished.

"Yeah," I replied.

"Why?"

"Well, I'se was starving," Jack replied, "so I stole some food."

"Food?" David said skeptically.

"Yeah, food."

"And what about you?" David inquired, turning to me.

"Heh," I laughed. "Apparently da bulls don't like it when you'se ta help a kid in trouble."

"Who were you helping?" Les implored.

"Don't know/Spot. He was in trouble, and I'se always help da undahdog."

"He called you Sullivan." David insisted. "and he called you Monday."

"Well, my name is Kelly. Jack Kelly. You think I'm lyin'."

"And mine is Spitfire." I added.

"What's you're real name?" Les pleaded of me.

"I don't normally tell people me name, Les," I looked at Les and his pleading eyes. I sighed and added, "but I'll tell you'se. Me mudder called me Tiffany Malloy. Just neveah tell nobody. It's not information I'se like ta spread."

"We'se ain't lyin', Davey." Jack said.

"Well, you have a way of improving the truth." David hinted. "Why was he chasing you both?"

"'Cause we escaped," I answered.

"Oh boy!" Les exclaimed. "How?"

"Well, dis big shot gave us a ride out in his carriage." Jack alleged.

"I bet it was the mayor." David retorted, sarcastically.

"No," I countered. "Teddy Roosevelt. You'se evah hoid o' 'im?"

"What's going on there?" Medda asked as she rushed down the stairs and towards us. "Out! Out! Out!"

"You wouldn't kick us out wit'out a kiss goodbye, wouldja Medda?" Jack flirted, taking her hand and kissing it.

"Oh Kelly, Malloy," she said, walking past Jack and hugging me. "Where ya been, kids? Oh, I miss seein' you two up in the balcony."

"Hanging on you're every word, Medda," Jack replied.

"So, Medda," I announced.

"Yes?" she inquired, turning towards me.

"Dis is David and Les," I gestured to the two boys in front of me.

"Hello, " Medda greeted, with a slight curtsy.

"And dis is da greatest star of vaudeville stage today," Jack introduced. "Miss Medda Larkson, da Swedish Meadowlark."

"Welcome, gentlemen," Medda declared.

"Medda also owns da joint," I added.

"Oh, what do we have here?" Medda commented, rounding on Les. "Oh, aren't you da cutest little thing that ever was? Yes, you are."

"Buy me last pape, lady," Les inquired, coughing into his fist.

"Oh, you are good," Medda praised. "Oh yes, this kid is really good. Who taught 'im? Spitfire? Well, speaking as one professional to another, I'd say you have a great future."

"So," I said, smirking as Jack glared at Medda and I, "is it alrigh' if we'se stay 'ere fer a liddle while, Medda? Jest until a liddle problem outside goes away?"

"Sure," Medda answered. "stay as long as you like. Toby, just give my guests whatever they want."

I listened as Medda was announced and she went on stage. I hummed quietly along as she sang. After the show, the four of us headed outside.

"So, you'se like dat," Jack asked, a small smirk on his face.

"Oh, I loved that," Davey divulged. "I loved it. It was great. She is beautiful. How do you know her?"

"She was foiend o' me fadder's. I'se introduced 'er ta Spitfire o' couple years ago," Jack explained as I asked Les if wanted to shine my boots.

"Oh, it's getting late," David affirmed. "My parents are going to be worried. What about your's?"

"Nah," Jack said pulling out his Santa Fe brochure. "dere out lookin' fer a place ta live, like dis. See, dat's Santa Fe, New Mexico. As soon as dey find da right ranch, dere gonna send for me."

"Then you'll be a real cowboy," Les stated in wonder.

"Yup," Jack replied. "and I'se gonna bring Spitfire wit me."

Crashes interrupted the still night. We followed the sounds to see a riot in the street. A group of men were beating up another man.

"Jack!" David exclaimed, looking at the riot with horror. "Why don't we go to my place and divi up. You can meet my folks."

"It's da trolley strike, Jack," I cheered as the both of us punched the air. "Dese couple o' dumbasses must not have joined or somet'ing."

"Jack," David pleaded. "let's get out of here."

"So," I said as Jack picked up Les, "maybe we'll get a good headline tommorah. I'se gonna head back to the lodging house, Jacky-boy."

Jack nodded his consent and I walked away, dreaming of Santa Fe.


	3. A Strike

The next morning, Jack and I walked up to the Distribution Center to see a swarm of complaining newsies.

"Dey jacked up da price," Blink hollered. "You'se hear dat Spitfire? Ten cents a hundred! You'se know it's bad enough we'se hafta eat what we'se don't sell, now dey jack up da price! Can you'se beleive dat Jack?"

"Dis'll bust me," Skittery complained, "I'm barely makin' a livin' right now."

"I'll be back ta livin' on da streets," Boots stated matter-of-factly.

"It don't make no sense," Mush wondered. "I'se mean, wit all da money Pulitzer's makin', why would he gouge us?"

"Cause he's a tight-wad, dat why!" I scoffed

"Pipe down!" Jack said. He then asked Weasel for a reason about the jack up. HIs reply only to be a comment on the weather.

"Dey can't do dis ta me, Jack," Blink muttered.

"Dey's can do whatevah dey want," Racetrack conceded. "It's dere stinkin' paper."

I sighed as Boots admitted that us kids had no rights, then sighed again in shame as Race made a poker reference. I chuckled as Les sat down right next to Jack after saying he needed space.

"Jack," I observed after about half a minute. "You'se done thinkin' yet?"

"You mean like a strike?" Davey asked after Jack said that nobody sells papes.

"Yeah, like a strike," Jack agreed.

"Are you'se outta yer mind," Race hooted in disbelief.

"It's a good idea," Jack insisted, defensively.

"Jack, I was only joking," David said, sounding pained. "We can't go on strike, we don't have a union."

"Well," Jack asked, "if we'se go on strike den we'se are a union right?"

I watched as Jack continued to insist on the strike. I sighed as Boots and Les fueled his fire. I walked forward and listened as David told Jack what to say.

"Pulitzer and Hearst," Jack sand as he climbed the statue, "dey t'ink we're notin'. Are we'se nothin'?"

"NO!"

"If we stick together like the trolley workers then they can't break us up." David whispered to me.

I climbed up next to Jack and sang; "Pulitzer and Hearst, dey think dey got us. Do dey got us?"

"No!"

"Even though we ain't got hats or badges," Jack and I belted out in unison. "We'se a union just by sayin' so. And da World will know!"

"Well, den we'll soak 'em!" Jack shouted in response to various newsies comments.

"What's gonna take ta stop da wagons? Are we ready?" I asked.

"Yeah!"

"What's it gonna take ta stop da scabber?" I sang. "Can we'se do it?"

"Yeah!"

"We'll do what we'se gotta do until we break da will o' mighty Bill and Joe!" Jack hollered.

"And the World will know," the rest of us sang in response. "And da Journal too! Mr. Hearst and Pulitzer have we'se got news for you! Now da World will hear what we'se got ta say. We've been hawkin' headlines, but we'se makin' 'em taday. And our ranks will grow!"

"And we'll kick dere rear," yelled Crutchy.

"And da World will know dat we've been here!" I added.

"When da circulation bell starts ringin' will we hear it?" Jack inquired.

"No!"  
"What if da Delancey's come out swingin' will we hear it?" I shouted.

"No! When you'se got a hundered voices singin' who can hear a lousy whistle blow? And da World will know dat dis ain't no game. Dat we'se got a rotten fruit and poifect aim. So dey gave dere woid but it ain't worth beans! Now dere gonna see what 'stop da presses' really means. And da day has come, and da time is now, and da fear is gone."

"And dere name is mud!" I exclaimed.

"And the strike is on," the boys hollered.

"And I can't stand blood," Boots added.

"Pulitzer may crack da whip but he won't whip us," Jack and I belted out in unison.

"Pulitzer may crack da whip but he won't whip us," we all sang. "And da World will know, and da World will loin, and da World will wonder how we'se made da tables toin. And da World will see dat we'se had ta choose. Dat da things we'se do taday will be tommorah's news. And da old will fall, and da young stand tall. And da time is now, and da winds will blow, and our ranks will grow. And grow, and grow, and so da World will feel da fire and finally know!"

"Strike! Strike! Strike!" we chanted as Jack climbed down the ladder and next to me.


	4. Welcome Back to Brooklyn

"We'se gotta get da woid out ta all da newsies o' New Yawk," he said. "I'se need some o' those...what'dja call 'ems?"

"Ambassadors?" David suggested. How he got 'ambassadors' out of Jack's crazy arm signals, I will never understand.

"Yeah, right," Jack agreed. "Okay, you'se guys, you'se gotta be ambastards and go tell de udders we're on strike." I laughed at Cowboy's mispronunciation as Blink called out that he would take Harlem.

"Yeah," Racetrack called. "I'se got Midtown."

"I'se got da Battery, Jack," said Mush.

"Alright." I instructed. "And Bumlets, and Specs, and Skittery, you'se take Queens. Pie Eatah! Snoddy! East Side! Snipes, you'se go wit 'em."

"So," Jack stated. "what about Brooklyn? Come on, Spot Conlon's territory. What'sa matta? You'se scared o' Brooklyn?"

"Hey, we'se ain't scared o' Brooklyn!" Boots shouted, as everyone besides me, David, and Les, nodded. "Spot Conlon makes us a liddle noivous."

"Well," Jack said, grinning at finding a victim. "he don't make me noivous. So you'se and me, Boots, we'll go ta Brooklyn."

"I'll come too," I declared, raising my hand.

"You'se sure about dat, Spitfire?" I could see worry in Jack's eyes as he tried to dissuade me from coming along.

"Yep, I'se wants ta meet dis Spot Conlon. Besides, I'se knows da place like da back o' me hand."

"Alrigh'," Jack relented. "Davey 'ere can keep us company as well."

"Sure," David said. "just as soon as you deliver our demands to Pulitzer."

"Me?" Jack asked, staring from David, to the World building, and to me laughing. "Ta Pulitzer."

"You're the leader, Jack," David replied.

"Go get 'em Jack," I cheered, still laughing. "Anyways, I'll meet you'se t'ree by da Brooklyn Bridge."

I walked inside the Lodging House, humming a song.

"Hiya, Spitfire," Kloppman greeted as I walked inside. "Why are you'se back so soon?"

"We'se, Jack, Boots, David, and me, are goin' ta Brooklyn and I needed ta pick somet'ings up." I explained, heading into the bunk room. I laid on my stomach and pulled out a mahogany box out from under my bed. I opened the lid and looked in it.

Inside was a hand-carved slingshot, from my Brooklyn days. Tied around it was another dull green ribbon. Next to it, was a small green velvet pouch of shooters. Also, was an emerald 'T', hanging from a silver chain.

I shoved the slingshot and shooters into my back pocket. I called goodbye to Kloppman as I walked outside, hitching the chain around my neck.

I stood, re-braiding my hair as I waited for the three boys. I tied my brown boots and waved as the boys approached.

"Iv'e never been to Brooklyn," David commented as we crossed the bridge. "Have you?"

"I'se spent a month dere one night," Boots replied.

"And I'se grew up dere," I added. Jack, Boots, and I leaned over the railing and screamed at the top of our lungs.

"So, is this Spot Conlon really dangerous?" David asked as the three of us laughed. The boys kept laughing at his inquiry, but I stopped and shrugged.

"No clue. I'se neveah met 'im."

We walked along the docks and tough looking boys glared at us. Subconsciously, I rubbed my slingshot, putting together my odds. This city has me trained.

"Goin' somewhere, Kelly?" asked a rough-looking newsie, pulling himself out of the water. Jack ignored the newsie and walked past him. Boots, David, and I only a few steps behind him.

"Well, if it ain't Jack be nimble, Jack be quick," a voice called. I snorted as a boy with bright blue eyes jumped down from his throne of crates. He grinned at me as I laughed

"Don't laugh at dat." Jack said, hitting me on the back of the head. "I'se see you'se moved up in da world, Spot. Got a rivah view and everythin'." The two boys spit-shook.

"Heya Boots," Spot said, "How's it rollin'?"

"I'se got o' couple o' real good shootahs." Boots responded, holding out a handfull of marbles.

"How comes you'se neveah showed me dose, Boots?" I complained as Spot picked one.

"'Cause you'se got da best in all o' New Yawk!" Boots exclaimed.

"You'se do?" Spot questioned, looking at me. I nodded. "Care ta show me if you'se can shoot?"

I smirked and reached into my back pocket, bringing out my slingshot and shooters. I reached into my pouch and drew out a deep green marble. Lining it up with a bird sitting on a pole, I fired. The mable sailed through the air and knocked the pidgeon off of it's perch.

"Wow," David whispered. Spot let out a nice, long, low whistle.

"Not bad," he said. "May I'se?"

I reached into the bag withdrew a small sky-blue marble. Once I had handed it over, Spot took aim and said;

"So, Jacky-boy. I'se been hearin' things from liddle boids. Things from Harlem, Queens, all ovah. Dey been chirpin' in me ear." Spot released, letting the marble fly into and shatter a abandon beer bottle. I smirked-finally, a worthy opponent. Spot winked at me, as though reading my mind. "Jacky-boy's newsies is playin' like dere goin' on strike."

"Yeah, well, we'se are," Cowboy replied.

"We're not playing," David said, hurriedly. "We are going on strike."

"Oh yeah?" Spot said, getting in his face. "Yeah? Wha's dis, Jacky-boy? Some kinda walkin' mouth?"

"Yeah, it's a mouth." I answered for Jack. "A mouth wit a brain, and if you'se got half o' one you'll listen ta what he's gotta say."

Spot stared at me. "Who are you'se?"

"Da name's Spitfire. Now listen ta Davey, Mistah Conlon."

"Well," David gulped. "we started the strike, but we can't do it alone. So, we're talking to newsies all around the city."

"Yeah," Spot retorted, leaning against his cane. "so dey told me. But what'd dey tell you'se?"

"They're waiting to see what Spot Conlon is doing, you're the key. That Spot Conlon is the most respected and famous newsie in all of New York, and probably everywhere else. And if Spot Conlon joins the strike, then they join and we'll be unstoppable. So you gotta join, I mean...well, you gotta!"

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Boots smiling and nodding and Jack trying to stifle his laughter.

"You're right Spitfire, brains. But I'se got brains too, and more den half o' one. How do I's know you'se punks won't run da foist time some goon comes at ya wit a club? How do I'se know you'se got what it takes ta win?" Spot stated.

"Because we'se tellin' you'se, Spot." Jack retorted.

"Dat ain't good enough Jacky-boy. You'se gotta show me."

"Fine," Jack stressed, straightening up. "We'll leave den." I turned to follow when Spot called us back.

"Let me tawks ta Spitfire."

"Wha?" Jack asked, his voice cracking. "No way. We'se gotta go."

"Aw, come on, Kelly ," I complained, my eyes never leaving Spot's unique ones. "I'll be fine. Go tell da, boys. I'll meet up witcha lader. Promise."

Jack scowled, but turned and left.

"Ey, Spitfire" Boots said, turning around before he left, "Can you'se teach me how ta throw a right hook when you'se back? I'm gonna need ta know."

"Yeah," I obliged. "Sure t'ing Boots. Now catch up wit Jack or he'll have me head. And poisanally, I'se like me head." Boots nodded and ran off.

"You'se can fight?" Spot inquired, walking closer to me.

"Hafta, if you'se grew up in Brooklyn."

"Tell me 'bout it."

"Why did ya ask me ta say?" I asked.

"Cause I'se want ta know why you'se a newsie, and how you'se know Jack."

"Jack and I'se met in da Refuge. Escaped tageder."  
"Well, dat answers me second queation, but what about me foist one?"

"Cause I don't wanna be in a factory." I explained truthfully. "In da factory you'se can get hoit so easily. And I'se don't wanted ta be treated like da rich goils walkin' on da streets, as if I ain't got rights. Besides, as a newsie, you'se can be outside, you'se can be free."

"Dat's a good reason," Spot whispered, leaning inches from my face. "Now you'se betta get back ta Manhattan, udderwise Jacky-boy will kill me wit me own slingshot."

"Probably," I chuckled, stepping away from him. "See ya around, Spotty."


	5. An Annoyingly Short Chapter - Sorry

I arrived in Newsie Square and joined Jack's ranks as the first newsie sacraficed his papes. The boys and I fought against the scabbers, Jack smearing his face in the window. We tore the papes and shouted at the scabbers. We ran as the bulls arrived on the scene. I turned and looked back as they pulled Crutchy away, tears welling in my eyes.

"Crutchy," I mumbled.


	6. With Green Laces In Her Boots

That night, I walked through Brooklyn, aiming my slingshot at every and any noise I heard, just as Brent had taught me. Spot was on his throne as I arrived in the docks.

"Didja miss me, Spitfire?" Spot called hopping down and walking towards me. Then he saw the tear tracks on my cheeks. "What's wrong, doll?"

"It's da bulls, deys got Crutchy. We swarmed da center, and tore da papes. Den Cowboy called ta cheese it, but Cruthcy didn't hear 'im." I replied. "Oh," I added, slapping him, "and do not call me 'doll'. I'se will hoit you'se."

"Right, sorry," he muttered, rubbing his jaw. "Now, why did you'se tell me 'bout Crutchy?"

"So you'se would help out wit da strike," I explained, crossing my arms.

"Aw, Spitfire," Spot complained, sitting down on a crate and gesturing for me to down next to him. I refused. "I'se can't do dat. You'se hafta prove yerselves ta me foist. Like I'se said earlier."

"Fine." I stated. "I'll leave. Don't let me disturb you'se. I'se mean, you'se are probably thinkin' up some udder selfish act. What is it? Stealin' candy from a baby? Or is it takin' a gang members daggah?"

"How did you'se know dat?" Spot exclaimed, standing up and staring at me.

"Whatcha mean, Spotty?" I inquired, losing my defensive pose.

"How did you'se know dat I stole a gang members daggah?!"

"You'se did what!?" I screeched. "Do you'se know how incrediably stupid dat is!?"

"'Ey!" he yelled. "I'se was 10. I'se didn't know he was a gang member! But I'se got out clean. A goil scared 'im off."

"Wait, what?"

"A goil scared 'im off."

"Did da goil wear green laces in her boots?" I insisted, taking a step forward. "And did da bulls take her away? Did she yell dat it was worth it, causing dem ta knock her out so she'd shut up?"

"How did you'se know all dat? I'se always felt bad dat I let her take da fall."

"Good ta know, I'se glad dat you'se regret it. I'se got a bad bruise from dat day and a scar on me left shoulder from where da guy got me wit dat dagger o' 'is."

"You'se da goil dat helped me?"

"Yep. Aw, come on, please tell me dat you'se at least got a scratch!"

"I think da guy musta been in love wit 'is daggah." Spot retorted, rolling up his right sleeve. On it was a long white scar. Aslo-I couldn't help but notice-that his arms, which at first appeared skinny, were well-musceled.

"Huh," I said, trying not to look at his arm. "Well, are you'se gonna join da strike or not."

"How did we'se end up here again?" Spot asked, rolling down his sleeve again.

"You'se owe me, Spotty," I hinted.

"I'll considah it." Spot agreed. "Now get back home. I'se like ta live ta see tommarah."

"Fine." I replied. "But remember, Spotty, da boys are probably gonna get hoit. We'se need ya help, and I'se don't admit ta needin' help."

With those word said I left.


	7. Never Fear, Brooklyn Is Here

The next day, the boys and I stood in front of the World building, and sang; "Open da gates and sieze da day. Don't be afraid and don't delay. Nothin' can break us. No one can make us give our rights away. Arise, and sieze da day."

We linked arms and faced the Center. The gates opened and out came the scabbers.

"Alright," Davey said, clapping his hands together. "Everyone remain calm."

We all stayed quiet until Jack shouted; "Let's soak 'em fer Crutchy!"

We charged the newsies, causing them to retreat. A large door opened and big men with clubs, chains, and weapons walked out.

"Jack," Race yelled as he pushed me behind him, my eyes wide. "Jack! It's da Crib!"

The men formed a circle around Jack so nobody could help him. I shoved past Racetrack and tried to help him. The gates slammed shut as newsies tried to escape.

"Heya, Jacky-boy," Oscar greeted as Jack faced a tall man with a chain. As I tried to break through to help Jack, and as his face paled, newsies appeared in the rooftops.

"Neveah fear, Brooklyn is heah," My eyes met Spot's as and he smirked and nodded at me. I nodded back and winked.

Turning around, I delivered a round-house kick to a man swinging a chain behind me.

"Are you all right?" I called to Skittery as he fell back from being punched. As a response, he jumped back up and punched the guy in the jaw. Spot opened the gates, allowing a flow of Brooklyn to come crashing through. I shoved Race back and he shoved me when Denton flashed a photo.


	8. King Of New York

Later that day at Tibby's, I was sitting in my chair, feet on the table and arguing with Racetrack when Denton walked in.

"Hey fellas," he greeted.

"I'm a goil!" I hollered.

"Sorry," he apologized, handing me the paper.

"Whatcha got dere, Spitfire?" Boots asked.

"Where's me picture?" Spot inquired, peering over my shoulder. I bit my lip to hide the shiver I got from his hot breath against my face. "Where's me picture?"

"What's dat," Boots asked again. "All dem words 'bout us?"

"Look at dat, Jack," Mush exclaimed. "You'se look like a gentleman."

"Will you'se get yer fingers off me face?" demanded Jack, brushing Mush's pointing fingers from his face on the paper.

"Where does it say me name?" yelled Spot in my ear. "Where's me name?"

"Will you'se quit thinkin' about yerself?" I shouted, pushing him back.

"You got us on the front page," David told Denton.

"You got yourselves on the front page," Denton explained. "I just have to make sure stay there."

"So what," implored Skittery. "You'se get yer picture in da papes, so what's dat get you'se, huh?"

"What are you'se tawkin' about?" called Mush.

"Shuddup, boy," I added. "You'se been in a bad mood all day!"

"I ain't been in a bad mood!" Skittery scoffed.

"Glum and dumb," stated Racetrack, slapping him. "What's da matta wit ya? You'se get ya picture in da papes, yer famous. Yer famous, you'se get anythin' you'se want. Dat' what so great about New Yawk!"

"A pair o' new shoes wit matchin' laces," sang Mush.

"A permanent box at Sheepshed Races," confessed Race, clapping his hand together.

"A porcelain tub wit boilin' watah," remarked Spot, swinging his drink.

"A Saturday night wit da mayor's daughter," shouted Blink, dancing on the table.

"Look at me," announced Race, "I'm da King o' New Yawk. Suddenly I'm respectable, starin' right atcha, lousy wit stature."

"Nubbin' wit all da muckety-mucks," called Jack. "I'm blowin' me dough and goin' deluxe!"

"And dere I'll be," I added, standing up. "Ain't I'se pretty?"

"It's my city," the three of us sang in unison. "I'm da king o' New Yawk!"

"A corduroy suit wit fitted knickers," declared Boots.

"A mezzanine seat to see the flickers," reported Les.

"Havana cigars dat cost a quartah," continued Snipeshooter.

"An editor's desk for our star reporter," asserted David.

"Tip your hat," we all belted out. "He's da King o' New Yawk!"

"How 'bout that?" commented Denton. "I'm the King of New York!"

"In nothin' flat," we hollered. "He'll be coverin' Brooklyn ta Trenton, our man Denton."

"Makin' a headline out o' a hunch," stated Blink.

"Protecting the weak," sang Denton.

"And payin' fer lunch," added Racetrack.

"When I'm at bat, strong men crumble," Denton boasted.

"Proud yet humble," I scoffed. "He's da King o' New Yawk."

"I gotta be either dead or dreamin', 'cause look at dat pape wit my face beamin'. Tommorah dey may wrap fishes in it, but I was a star fer one whole minute! Starting now, I'm da King o' New Yawk!"

"Ain't you'se hoid?" I called out, jumping onto a table. "I'm da King o' New Yawk!"

"Holy cow! It's a miracle, Pulitzer's cryin'. Weasel, he's dyin'! Flash spots are shootin' bright as da sun."

"I'm one hifalutin' son of a gun!" I sang and had to choke down my laughter at Spot and David's reactions to my language. "Don't ask me how fortune found me, fate just crowned me. Now, I'm da King o' New Yawk!"

"Look and see, once a piker, now a striker. I'm da King o' New Yawk! Victory! Front page story, guts and glory, I'm da King o' New Yawk!"

We all cheered. I stood next to Spot as newsies gathered around the table, pushing and shoving.

"So," Jack stated. "let's have some ideas."

"Well," David commented. "we gotta show people where we stand."

"Yeah," I added. "so we'se gotta stay in da papes."

"My paper's the only one printing any strike news so far." Denton said.

"So," Jack replied, "we'se should do somt'ing dat's so big da udder papes'll feel stupid if dey try ta ignore us."

"Like a rally," I exclaimed. "A newsie rally wit all da kids from all ovah New Yawk. It'll be da biggest, loudest, noisiest blow-out dis town's evah seen!"

"We'll send a message to the big boys," David retorted.

"Geesh," Race said, cracking his knuckles. "I'll give 'em a message."

A waitress walked over and we all took a glass of coke.

"There's a lot of us," declared Jack, "and we'se ain't goin' away. We'll fight until damn Doomsday if it means we'se get a fair shake."

"Hey, guys," remarked David. "To our man Denton."

"Our man Denton!" we toasted.


	9. Prologue

Real Name: Teagan Monday

My name is Spitfire. The reason why I have that name is obvious if you know me. People say I'm a tad outspoken, and my anger has been known to get out of control. But hey, don't blame me! I'm Irish, it's my nature.

Although, I don't look Irish. I don't have red hair or a pale complexion. I have a tan and brown, curly, hair. The only thing remotely Irish looking about me, is the few amount of freckles sprayed across my nose, and my eyes. My eyes are almond-shaped and a startling green.

I also wear a small silver locket with an emerald set in the center. Inside is the locket is the photo of my elder brother, Brent. He has shaggy red hair that is always in his face. His eyes are green and he also has my arched eyebrows. Of course, it doesn't show those details seeing as it's black and white.

The only one who knows who the photo is, Jack Kelly. He's like my other brother. When I was ten I got stuck in the Refuge. There was an eleven-year-old boy who was my only friend. We know all of each other's secrets. For example, I know that his real name is Francis Sullivan. Just as he knows mine is Teagan Monday. We escaped the hellhole together.

But, maybe I should get to the story. The one where I meet the famous Spot Conlon.


	10. Whoops and Disclaimer

Hey people. I am terribly sorry if any of you are confused. **Arosequartz** pointed out to me that my prologue contains the entire story. I fixed that but now my story is a bit jumbled. My prologue is now chapter nine and I'm pretty sure a lot more confusing things are on there. Oh we'll, I'll get better at this- i hope.

Also, I have forgotten to do the disclaimer so here it is for the entire story!

I own nothing but Spitfire and any other character you might not recognize. Newsies are not mine even though I wish they were.


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